The Potter boy and the Pretty Red-Head
by missinsertname
Summary: To some people, like muggle Mary and her husband, Lily and James Potter were just that Potter boy and the pretty red head who lived next door. In the end, maybe that meant so much more than the truth. First Chapter: Lily and James' funeral, appearance from Albus Dumbledore.


**A little different. Told from the perspective of an unknowing muggle, I tried to focus on the fact that, just for a while at least, James and Lily weren't the epic and brilliant wizard and witch who were murdered and went on to be the stuff of legend. They were, to someone, just a young couple with an infant son, ready to start their lives, who died tragically. I also wondered who would have attended their funeral, this was the result. Please enjoy.**

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_Bang._

"_Please, leave them! Lily run-"_

_Bang._

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOT HARRY PLEASE NOT HARRY!"_

_Bang._

_Muffled cries of an innocent infant could be heard through the wall._

_A roar? A motorbike?_

"_No, not James, Lily, no please Merlin no! NO!"_

_The voice collapsed into tears._

_She has to help._

_A handsome face, curly black hair and a distraught expression faced her for a second, flames from the house dancing mockingly in his eyes. Then, then-_

"Darling wake up. Come on love, I know its hard but you know it will help being there."

Mary turned over from her fitful sleep to see her husbands lined face smiling in a empathetic way at her, and she could see that the event only a few short days ago had added a few more lines to it. She shook herself mentally and tried also shake off her dream, but when it had been the same every night it never left her, and she knew would be at the forefront of her mind today; it was their young neighbours funeral.

"I know, I just can't stop dreaming about it; it scares me because we weren't even at home when they- well, when the fire started."

Robert sighed and looked down at her, concern taking over his features.

"Maybe that is why you are imagining things, you know because you wish we could have been in at the time to help. I had it for a while after the War, survivors guilt, but it is unfounded, you mustn't do it to yourself, that's not what-," he paused, "James and Lily would have wanted."

"I know."

He smiled in a conciliatory way down at her, and left the room to allow her to get ready. Mary sat up, shivering from absence of duvet. She knew he had been just as affected by it all as she had, but 50 years of marriage had taught her he would always put her feelings and worries before his own, but she wished they could share it more. If only she could have been there! She felt like she had, the amount she had dreamt and imagined, and that desolate face looking at her in such despair, only for a second, seemed to be etched on her retinas. It frustrated her to not know where she had seen him before, she had thought about it endlessly. Always the same dream, the same screams, the same roar of engine, wails of defenceless child. All made up in her mind.

Harry. That was the utmost tragedy, and who she thought of as she put on her black clothes. He was the one who had lost the most, and he would not ever even know the difference. Such a happy little boy, the focus of his devoted parents lives. That was all gone, now. But he had miraculously been rescued by fire fighters, she had heard. He lived, that was something. There was something of their young lives left.

She went to the mirror to do her hair, and stopped for a second to gaze on her reflection. Seventy-five years had been kind, although not all together unforgiving, but before she had never minded her wrinkles, every one was a wisdom. Now she was saddened to see them, because of all the years she had had which fate had taken from them. They were so young, so free, the entire world at their leisure, and the string of life had been cut before it had truly been spun, too soon, way too soon. She could not help but wish the fire had been in her house, taking people who had done everything they had planned and lived already rather than ones only just getting started.

No Mary, she told herself, you can't think like that. It was a tragic accident, wishing it away will not change it. Anyway, you still have life inside you Mrs Davidson. Still things to do, see, say. It's not your fault.

She physically shook herself, and got ready, modestly tying back her dark but silvery hair.

A little later, after eating, she went into their cosy little living room to smile down at her balding husbands head which was bowed over a painfully recently made photo album, and gazing on the picture they had took with Harry when he was barely a month old.

"Such a bright boy wasn't he, even then."

Her words had startled Bertie slightly, but his reaction was more of being woken than surprised.

"Yes, he was. Is."

"You know that's what we need to focus on don't you?"

She placed a hand on his shoulder and he covered it gently, sharing both their feelings without words. Mary did wonder whether the same thoughts about age and waste had crossed his mind but she knew she couldn't ask, bring him down further.

"Is. Yes."

He turned his head to look up at her, and never did she see the lines and age, only his kind, young eyes, which were dispelling gentle droplets of water which fell onto the photo.

She leant down, tenderly taking the book from him and removed the photo from the plastic case with care. He looked at her in confusion, but a smile took over him when he saw her place it in a photo frame and next to the photo of their wedding day, at the centre of the mantel piece.

"I love you, you do know that don't you?"

She had her back to him facing the mirror above the fireplace and she saw the reflection of him standing up, with an earnest, almost desperate look on his face for her to know, to be sure.

Mary smiled in the mirror at him, still with her back turned, and nodded honestly and understandingly at him. She knew he needed reassurance; she did too, even though they both knew anyway. He stepped up to just next to her and took one of the pure white flowers off the bouquet on a spindly table and pushed the short stem into her hair.

"A lily."

They both smiled and she took that moment to appreciate how lucky she was, and how a time such as this should put her life in perspective. She must live it.

Fireworks kept shooting through the sky; they had done since Halloween. Mary appreciated the beauty of them and didn't begrudge anyone a celebration of Bonfire Night but during the day she could not see the point. Everywhere she had gone this past week or so, there had been happy faces all around the village, and odd clothing, already common in this area seemed to have gotten almost compulsory. It bothered her slightly, not these things and owls all the time, but the almost surreality of all the people who didn't know the Potters being so cheerful. Some did though, she had heard them talking in the post office, but they didn't sound sad, just gossipy in her opinion.  
They walked down the graveyard arm in arm, Mary still pondering how much the Potters would be missed, who would show up for the funeral. They kept to themselves as far as she was aware, only her and her husband were their friends in the village. She had seen visitors occasionally, and there always was a fair amount of noise in their house when this happened, but it wasn't often.  
Lily had once mentioned a sister, when their cat had knocked over a vase, and she could vaguely recall hearing that that was whom Harry would be going to live with, but she couldn't remember where. She instantly felt a pang of sympathy for Lily's sister, losing a sibling so young. But she would have that beautiful boy as a reminder; she hoped that would be enough.

"Are you okay darling?" Bertie smiled down at her sadly, stopping her in the street and wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

Mary nodded up at him in response, holding back the tears; one thing she had learnt was that crying never got anything done. He shook his head at her defiance and enveloped her in a hug which she returned, until she realised who she could see over his shoulder.  
"That's the man who told us what had happened when we got back." She pointed, surreptitiously wiping her eyes with her other hand as he approached, more aware than ever of the lines under them.

"Good afternoon Mr and Mrs Davidson, I presume you are heading to the ceremony?"

The man who had introduced himself as 'Albus' was very tall and had a very long white beard which gave a distinct wise impression, which she guessed was probably the aim. He was dressed in black, but a very long cloak which trailed slightly on the ground. Every part of his description suggested an intimidating man, but there was a kindly air about him and his oddly shaped glasses. He must have been around their age, but he did not walk or sound as such. He was rather confusing.

"Are you alright my dear?" he leant down slightly as if to see her better, as she realised she must still have slightly red eyes. When she went to respond however he rose a hand gently to halt her.

"Silly question, silly question. It is a sad day, and very well it should. These people were..." He had begun his sentence with great presence, but at the mention of them he coughed slightly and stopped talking. This was the first time she saw a truly grave expression flicker across his face.

"So are you a relative of some kind?" Bertie said hesitantly as the three of them began to walk together, the cemetery only a short distance away.

"Believe it or not I was their teacher." The grave eyes did not leave as a small smile appeared on his face.

"They worked for me after they left school; I think I was considered a friend, although I probably didn't see as much of them as I... well."

He trailed off, and they resumed silence. Mary glanced at the man again sympathetically. Maybe he was feeling similar to how she had, all that life they had to go that they had already taken, wasted.

They turned into the graveyard, and Mary raised her hand to block the startling rays of the summer sun from blinding her as they made their way to the Potter headstone where she could see hardly any people standing.  
As they approached a greasy haired man looked up at Albus and he excused himself from them to walk over. Bertie gripped her hand as they saw the man's face. His eyes were dark red, looking so shockingly hollow, reflective of too many tears shed, and his face was contorted in visible physical agony, his hands balled into fists as he stared at the coffins waiting to be lowered. His jaw tightened as he felt Albus' hand on his shoulder and they stood together in silence.

Mary looked away, not wanting to intrude, but all her eyes fell on where two burly men in what looked like uniform robes. One had his back to the scene and was looking around as if paranoid, and the other, she noticed suddenly, had his eyes searchingly fixed on them.

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**I hope you enjoyed it, I will be writing more chapters, but I will need encouragement, and guidance and advice if you want to give it, all welcome. Thank you for reading! :)**


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